


I'd Get On My Knees

by cdra



Series: Kinktober 2019 [11]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Beads, Bondage, Crimson Flower Route, Degradation, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, Masochistic Sylvain Propaganda, Sounding, don't worry he's really into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdra/pseuds/cdra
Summary: Dorothea is a beautiful, cruel goddess; at least, she looks the part from where Sylvain is kneeling.[Kinktober Day 11 - Object Insertion, Sounding]





	I'd Get On My Knees

**Author's Note:**

> i'm jst an little creacher... who dies writing degradation kinks... WHEW

Seiros be damned, Sothis be damned—sacrilege won’t be the worst of Sylvain’s sins, so he can say with some confidence that Dorothea is _far _more goddesslike than any of the figures the church used to tout. Getting on his knees to pray never felt like some holy experience, not like this: not like his arms bound behind his back in one of those long, silk sashes they use when dancing, not like Dorothea standing tall and long and perfect above him as she steps on his shoulder, not like the ice-hot glare she casts down at him from above, like he’s absolutely _nothing _beneath her and he better damn well appreciate that she’s looking at him at all.

He does—_goddess_, he does.

Dorothea huffs, flicking her riding crop against her palm. “Oh, Sylvain… I bet you’d get on your belly like this for any girl who called you pretty,” she sneers, shifting to tilt his chin upward with her foot. “Would you, Sylvain? How pathetic.”

His head feels like it’s full of cotton and sedatives, and his vision tunnels in on Dorothea’s form. “No,” he says, his instinct to play it cool overtaking his tongue, “I wouldn’t, not for anyone less lovely than—”

There’s the smack of the crop against his ass, and Sylvain yelps. “Liar. Your smooth words won’t work here, you dog.” Dorothea gives him another smack on the back of his thigh for good measure, and Sylvain heaves in his next few breaths, his thoughts sticking together like sap. Damn, she’s good.

She takes a fistful of red hair in hand as she leans over him; her lips curl up into an expression so cruel and beautiful that Sylvain can’t help but stare uselessly into her eyes. “You’ll learn your place as my toy, Sylvain, or I’ll let every other girl you’ve fucked with have their fun with you—unless that’s what you want, pet?”

“No, I—” _maybe_, he thinks, but not if it means Dorothea will abandon him right now, “I’ll be good, I swear.”

“Do you, now?” she chimes, and Sylvain thinks her smile might have softened just a little. “I wonder what good the word of a whore like you is, though?” Why those sweetly-spoken insults go straight to his dick, Sylvain doesn’t really feel like unpacking—but they certainly do, and he trembles a bit as her nails press into his scalp.

Dorothea seems satisfied with his silence, because she lets go and stands up; the leather of the riding crop trails along his spine, sending an uneasy current along his nerves as she circles around to his back. “You want to be good for me, pet?” She purrs, and Sylvain bites his lip as he nods—though it’s hard to get a good look at her, bound with his ass up and his face against the ground as he is. “Then, let’s see if you can live up to that.”

Another snap of the crop against skin, then another—then Dorothea grabs his asscheek and squeezes, humming to herself as Sylvain gasps unevenly. She leans over his back, tugs a bit at the silk wound around his form to get him to look up at her again; if the smolder in her eyes is an indication, she seems satisfied at how just this little has him growing wrecked.

“You’re so, _so _easy,” she hums sweetly as she trades the riding crop for something else—a thin metal rod, and Sylvain’s thoughts are too scrambled to quite make sense of the purpose of it before her hand is on his dick, cool and oil-slick against the heat of his flesh. “Getting hard from nothing at all—you’re lucky I don’t mind what a slut you are.”

It’s not from _nothing _and she knows it, but Sylvain knows not to argue when he’s already so tongue-tied that all he can do is whine. “Dorothea, please,” he starts, but she reminds him of his place with a sharp slap on his rear.

“If you’re going to beg, you know how to do it properly, don’t you?” She leaves him untouched and needy for a moment, just to make her point; it works.

“M-Mistress,” Sylvain stammers, squirming in place, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again…”

Dorothea sighs and takes his cock in hand once more; she’s not gentle about nudging the metal rod against his slit. “Fortunately for you, I’m kind enough to overlook your missteps.”

Sylvain whimpers, wanting to protest as she pushes the rod inside of him, so slowly that it stings through his entire lower half and leaves him breathless. He thanks her instead, in a thin and pitiful sort of tone, and she chuckles a bit as she buries the rod deep in his shaft.

“That’s right—you take it so well, but I should expect as much from such a well-groomed whore.” Sylvain’s nails press into his palms as the heat of Dorothea’s hands leaves his full, throbbing cock—it twitches and he sobs, all too aware of how the rod presses at strange points inside of him.

There’s a pressure at his entrance, next, and Sylvain’s back arches unconsciously; Dorothea purrs something that he doesn’t quite parse as she slips something round and smooth inside of him. The whimpers on his lips turn into a prayer of desperate begging and slurred thanks, conflicted and torn at the edges; Sylvain feels like he’s fraying as Dorothea presses each bead steadily inside of him, her grip on his hip firm enough to nearly bruise.

“You’re much more pleasant when you’re sincere,” she mutters softly, “when you’re honest about what you want... “

Sylvain mewls nonsensically as the last bead slips inside, and Dorothea rests a hand on the small of his back for a moment as he quakes from the fullness of it all—he really doesn’t deserve it, especially not the kind brush of her fingers along his spine, but she gives it nonetheless, and in this moment of frayed seams and hot, sticky thoughts, he feels tears pricking at his eyes because of it.

“Sylvain?” she says quietly, concern evident in the name; “Is it too much?”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t look at her. Dorothea fingers at the rod in his shaft, which makes Sylvain squirm and whimper wetly.

“You really are being _so _good, you know,” her gentle tone breaks her cruel character a bit, but for Sylvain, it’s just another way that she’s divine beyond comprehension; he stammers another “thank you” and tries not to jerk his hips into her touch. “Such a good little toy… I won’t make you suffer much longer, okay?”

She tugs at the bindings on his arms, pulls him upward with a gentle strength until he’s sitting in her lap, now. The shift in position is almost too much; Sylvain keens wordlessly at the sensations that stutter through his form like a harsh thunder spell. Dorothea puts a hand in his hair and lets him slouch against her; he obliges, too breathless and overwhelmed do to much else.

“There we go—now I can see your pretty face as you fall apart for me.” The tiny praises are too much, in contrast to her earlier harshness—Sylvain feels lost, but Dorothea’s touch keeps him steady.

She starts with the beads, pulling slowly at the chain until they pop out, one by one—each one sends an explosion of colors over Sylvain’s vision until he’s completely lost control of his voice. Dorothea keeps purring about how he’s a good pet and whines so prettily and the words are all but lost in the trembling, gelatinous soup of his thoughts. His body quivers with a dry attempt at an orgasm, a rush stopped short by the painful throb of his cock around metal.

Once the last of the beads is removed, Dorothea tends to the rod—just her touching it again nearly makes Sylvain double over. She teases him just a bit, twisting it slowly as she pulls it out, and he begs “Dorothea, _please_, I can’t—!” in such an overwhelmed, pitiful way that Dorothea seems to take pity on him for forgetting to call her Mistress.

When she pulls it out, it’s enough for him to come instantly, shaking and forgetting to breathe as his release spills onto his stomach. His cock is flushed almost purple from the strain, but the color eases soon enough and it feels a bit like someone removed all of Sylvain’s bones as he flops back against Dorothea, gasping desperately.

“Good boy, good boy,” she soothes him as she strokes his hair; the half-conscious haze remains for a moment and Sylvain chooses to simply bask in it, in the harsh but benevolent light of Dorothea’s radiant pseudo-divinity.


End file.
